


First Meetings

by Newrose12



Series: Before it all began [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newrose12/pseuds/Newrose12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place before the series begins, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade meets Sherlock Holmes for the first time in a drug den while in pursuit of a killer. I really hate titles and suck at them, sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> So, I really want to know how the two met and what made Lestrade have so much faith in Sherlock and his abilities, even when everyone else seems to hate him. Since I don't know if they'll ever go into it, I've come up with my own idea.

“All right,” Detective Inspector Lestrade said, strapping on his vest, looking out over the faces who were waiting for his instructions. “The man we are looking for is said to be inside, use precaution, it is a drug den, the people inside are going to be unpredictable. Donovan, you're with me,” he said, looking at the younger woman who nodded. “You going to be ok with this?” he asked when she made her way to his side.

“I'll be fine sir,” she replied and Greg bit back the urge to tell her not to call him that, he hated being called 'sir' made him feel older than his forty years.

“All right, stay close and keep an eye out,” he said to her before turning back to the others, “my team will head in the front, team two side entrance, team three take the back.” He received a nod from the leaders of each team before he headed towards the front. They made their way through the den quickly enough, most of the crack heads and stoners gave no fight when they were handcuffed and set against the wall.

“Is that all of them?” Greg asked, looking over the twenty young men and women sat in front of him, either staring off into space or glaring at the police officers balefully.

“Believe so,” a younger officer said nodding to him before he moved forward to try to talk to the residents of the building.

“Sir,” Donovan said, coming in from the other room, “I found another room,” she said, “doesn't look like we've swept it.” Greg sighed and waived a hand for her to lead the way. The door was stuck and took them both pushing their shoulders against it to get it open. Inside was set up like a lab, a long table was set up under the only window on the opposite wall, filled with beakers and Bunsen burners. Greg stepped into the room and swept it, finding nothing but the table and experiments there. Donovan cried out as she stepped inside, a figure detached itself from the wall and struck her from behind, causing her to fall to the floor. Greg turned, baton in hand, ready to strike the man down, but suddenly the man pitched forward to reveal another man behind him, brandishing what looked like a metal bar.

“Put it down,” Greg cried, moving towards the second man slowly, reaching for his taser gun.

“Oh please,” the voice was low and sounded bored, “if I wanted you dead Detective Inspector, I would not have knocked out your suspect.”

“What?” Greg asked, surprised.

“Peter Anders, twenty-four, prime suspect in the murder of three young women, you can tell he's your murder due to lack of hygiene, he left dirt on the bodies, dug in to their skin, but no other clues.”

“Who are you and how the hell did you know that?” he demanded and the other man, who was freakishly tall with high cheekbones and blood-shot eyes smirked.

“I observed Detective Inspector Lestrade, and the name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said and proceeded to pass out.

________________________________________

Lestrade strode into the hospital and inquired about Sherlock Holmes well being and was directed to the third floor. He knew the name, everyone at Scotland Yard knew the name of Sherlock Holmes, and it irked most there that he had technically 'caught' their suspect. Over the years, they had received calls from the man with clues pertaining to cases that turned out to be right and led to many arrests. Greg had never dealt with the man himself but had heard about him, and though others found the man to be infuriating, Greg had to admit that he was good and did help, even if he was an asshole about it.

When he asked at the nurse's station, the woman there gave him such a nasty glare he took a step back from her, afraid she might hit him.

“He's in room 314,” she said, pointing down the hallway to his left and he thanked her before leaving hastily. As he approached he noticed a man standing in the room, he was dressed in a suit and leaning on an umbrella, watching Sherlock as he slept, a woman was in the corner on her phone.

“Can I help you?” he asked entering the room, glancing between the two people and the man turned his head to look at him over his shoulder.

“No thank you,” he said, his voice clipped and dismissive.

“You can't be in here,” Greg tried again and the other man stood straight and turned towards him.

“I have every right to be in here Detective Inspector,” the man said, his eyes glancing over him and quickly dismissing him.

“Leave off Mycroft,” a voice from the bed said and the two men turned towards it to find Sherlock watching them through half-lidded eyes.

“But my dear brother,” 'Mycroft' said in a condescending tone, “I was so worried about you.”

“Surprised you didn't send one of your goons down here to check on me,” Sherlock replied before glancing at the woman, “or at least by themselves.”

“You end up in hospital after who knows how long living in that dump, of course I came to check on you.”

“It was an experiment,” the man on the bed defended himself and Greg could almost hear the elder brother roll his eyes.

“It always is Sherlock,” he replied snidely. “I've signed you up for rehab and will have an apartment waiting for you when you get out.”

“I'm not going to rehab Mycroft,” Sherlock spat, “it's not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Mycroft scoffed, “you had enough drugs in your system to kill five men; you will be released in to my care, go to rehab and stay clean.”

“Or what?” Sherlock challenged and Mycroft smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile.

“I don't think I have to elaborate on that point, do you?” he asked, glancing at Greg out of the corner of his eye and Sherlock scowled. “I'll be back tomorrow to pick you up,” he went on and turned on his heel before exiting the room, the woman right behind him.

“It wasn't enough to kill five men,” Sherlock called after him, “I was monitoring my intake,” he said, turning back to Greg who was still standing by the door. “What can I do for you Detective Inspector?”

“I came to thank you,” Greg replied, moving further into the room and Sherlock looked surprised, “you saved my life as well as my colleague's, thought it only right to come in person and thank you.”

“No need,” Sherlock said, shrugging his shoulders, “did you arrest him then?”

“Yes, trial is next month.”

“Good,” the other man replied.

“How did you know?” Greg asked, needing to know.

“Like I told you at the den, his hygiene,” Sherlock replied as if it was the most obvious answer in the world and sighed when Greg just stared back blankly. “The three women had been strangled, the killer was wearing gloves, but there was a certain kind of dirt left behind, but no other clues, no fingerprints, no hairs, nothing, just dirt.”

“Right,” Greg agreed, still not getting it.

“He was an obsessive hand washer, but rarely cleaned anything else, living there you don't get access to a shower regularly but he always had hand sanitizer. The dirt came from the beach just outside the den, there was a chemical only found in that area of beach, he tended to sleep outside unless it was too cold. The dirt came from his dirty hair.”

“How did you get a sample of the dirt we found on the bodies?” Greg demanded and Sherlock shrugged again but refused to give his source. “Alright, look,” Greg went on, pulling the folder out that he had brought with him, “can you take a look at this case and give me your opinion?”

“Are you serious?” the man on the bed asked, sitting up, interest peaked.

“You're known around Scotland Yard, mostly as a pain in our ass, but also as someone who has a knack for solving cases. Pisses most of us off honestly, but I'm stumped and impressed with what you've done so far. One condition though,” he said, pulling the file out of reach when the other man reached for it.

“Oh, what now?” he demanded.

“You get clean and stay that way, go to rehab, do what you need to do because I could get in a lot of trouble just showing you this, if they know I'm showing it to a junkie, it'll be my job, and you're not worth that to me.” They stared at each other for a long time, both weighing each other up.

“Deal,” Sherlock said and reached for the file, Greg letting him take it this time.


End file.
